Profile
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: It isn't until after Shawn disappears that they realize he fits the profile. And it was well known by then what would happen to him during the span of his captivity. Unfortunately, there are no leads. Ultra Shawn whump. Please read warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

Profile

 **Summary** : It isn't until after Shawn disappears that they realize he fits the profile. And it was well known by then what would happen to him during the span of his captivity. Unfortunately, there are no leads. Ultra Shawn whump.

 **Rating** : M, for graphic depictions of wounds, beatings, rape, and torture. Seriously, it's pretty hardcore, and _all_ of it is _nonconsensual_ , so if it's a problem for you, _don't fucking read this_.

 **Disclaimer** : If I truly owned _Psych_ , I could never hurt Shawn like this.

1

A man lay on the cold slab in the SBPD morgue, skin pale and lifeless. A thin white sheet covered his genitals, but did nothing to distract from the aftermath of his torture.

His short brown hair was greasy and tangled, as though it had been used for leverage by the cruel hand that had detained him. Scruffy facial hair covered his cheeks and chin, but the stark bruises were still visible across his jaw. Deep dark rings shadowed the deceased man's eyes, which were forevermore closed to his surroundings.

The man's body was similarly decorated with bruises. Some were the obvious result of fists against flesh, concentrated around his ribs. Long welts made by some weapon were visible on his legs and shoulders, but the majority of them lay across his back. His wrists were practically flayed, a sign of restraint and struggle. The worst of the bruises were around his throat: the imprint of chains were clearly seen, and several spots of his tender skin had been split due to the pinching metal.

Pieces of broken glass had been discovered in the lacerations on the soles of the man's feet. Whether the victim had attempted escape or was forced to walk over the debris was unclear. There was also a quantity of dry dog food discovered in his stomach, only partially digested. Humans were not meant to consume that product.

But what sickened the detectives assigned to the case the most was the violent sexual abuse. The man had been forcefully penetrated repeatedly, and likely on more than one occasion, leaving behind extensive damage to his anus and rectum.

As far as anyone could tell, the man had been in captivity for at least a week, no more than two.

Shawn whistled lowly as Woody reported the injuries of the deceased. Lassiter and Henry shot him disapproving looks. It was certain that Gus would have as well had he not rushed to the restroom to purge his stomach of his recently imbibed Berry Berry smoothie. Juliet and Chief Vick frowned, obviously perturbed.

"And this is the second victim?" Lassiter confirmed, raising an eyebrow. "Same manner of death?"

"Gunshot to the back," Woody nodded. He pointed a gloved finger to the victim's chest to bring attention to it. "No exit wound here, either. The bullet penetrated the heart after passing through the spinal cord. No chance of survival."

"So we have the start of a profile," the Chief mused, thinking back to the first mystery. "Both victims are white males near their thirties, dark haired. As far as we know, these two have no connection?"

"None," answered Juliet. "No witnesses to their disappearances. Within two weeks of being reported missing, both are found less than a mile from their homes, dead."

Lassiter cut in, "They were both dressed in the same clothes they had been last seen wearing, but no trace of their captor had been left behind. The clothes and the bodies were washed with industrial cleanser. No way to get any DNA."

Chief Vick gave an aggravated sigh. "So no leads."

The detectives shook their heads.

At long last, Shawn Spencer spoke up from the other side of the table. "It was a police officer," he said.

Sharp glares were cast toward him.

"Excuse me?" Henry asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Did you say—?"

"A police officer," Shawn nodded without looking up from the body. He didn't seem to notice the offense he had caused. "A left-handed one."

The others looked down to the cadaver as though searching for some message scrawled out on his chest. Expectedly, they found none and regarded the younger Spencer again.

"Do you _hear_ yourself, Spencer?" Lassiter demanded incredulously. Even he had a difficult time processing the latest idiocy of his impromptu coworker.

Shawn looked up innocently. "The spirits are saying the killer is a left-handed police officer," he shrugged. "Have they ever been wrong?"

Before anyone could bring up one of the several instances in which the spirits _were_ wrong, Woody brought attention to himself. "Actually," he said, holding up a finger, "that does make sense. As you can see, the wounds are mostly dedicated to the right side of the body. That is consistent with a lefty. The bullet is nine-mil. Standard police issue."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "But that doesn't mean it's a _police officer_."

Shawn groaned dramatically and turned to his father for backup. Seeing the scowl hardening his father's features, he immediately averted his gaze to Juliet instead. She returned the look, but did not offer anything substantial. He turned to the Chief expectantly.

Chief Vick exhaled heavily. "We'll look into it, Mr. Spencer," she said resignedly. "In the meantime, stay off of this case. And that certainly means that you will not go around harassing my left-handed officers."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Shawn grinned, entertaining the idea only in his mind. "Besides, Gus and I have important things to do today."

Lassiter visibly brightened at that.

Shawn turned to leave, but then stopped and spun around. "Right!" he exclaimed. "I just remembered. I need to report a stalker."

Juliet looked surprised, but the Chief and Henry merely arched an eyebrow. "A stalker?" they repeated in unison.

The psychic nodded. "Someone's been following me for the last three days. He shows up outside my house, at that diner I eat at, and at my office."

At this even Lassiter appeared a little interested, and vaguely concerned.

"All right," Chief Vick said. "Then we'll file a report. You'll give a description of this stalker, and—"

"It's Chucky."

"Who?"

"You know," Shawn prompted meaningfully. "It's Chucky. The scary doll."

The demeanor in the room instantly changed.

"Out, Mr. Spencer," Vick said, frowning severely as she tried to keep herself in check. "I don't want to see you in my station for at least the next day, understand?"

"But—"

" _Mr._ Spencer."

Shawn hesitated, looking affronted, and turned to the others as though looking once more for help. He found no sympathy. For a moment he considered blatantly ignoring the Chief's orders and telling her about the stalker anyway, but then shut his mouth and stormed out. He stopped to collect Gus from the restroom, then hauled his friend out of the station.

Once the psychic had left, Henry, Lassiter, and Juliet awaited their orders.

"Detectives," Chief said at last, "follow up on the last place this gentleman was seen. I want an eyewitness."

"Yes, Chief," they said, quickly taking their leave.

"Henry, I don't want your son on this case, or on any in the next few days," she said. "Unless we absolutely need his help."

"Not a problem," Henry nodded, completely agreeing. Sometimes he thought his son needed to spend a night in lock-up. His disregard for authority and his antics had just about driven even the patient Juliet up the walls.

Shaking his head, he followed the Chief out of the morgue after thanking Woody. It was nearly quitting time, anyway, so Henry decided that he would go upstairs, finish up his day's report, and clock out. Once he was home he could cook those sirloin steaks he'd gotten. His mouth watered at the thought, but he forced it to the back of his mind for the next hour so he could finish his job.

On the drive home, Henry contemplated inviting Shawn and Gus over. If he didn't invite Gus, then Shawn more likely than not wouldn't come. But there wasn't enough steak for all three of them, so he'd just have to convince his son that the dinner would be worth the lecture that Shawn knew he was planning.

It was a free, hot meal, after all.

Henry arrived at his beachside home at about five in the evening, and was eager to get his cooking started. Once the steaks were sizzling on the grill and some vegetables simmering on the stove, the elder Spencer pulled out his cell phone.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

With an aggravated sigh, Henry hit the end button and redialed his son's number.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

"What's the point of having a phone," Henry said irritably after the beep, "if you never answer the damn thing? Pick up, Shawn. I need to talk to you."

He waited a moment, but when it became clear that Shawn was not going to call him back, Henry dialed a new number.

This time it only rang twice.

" _Mr. Spencer_?" Gus greeted.

"Yeah," he answered gruffly. "Tell Shawn to answer his phone."

" _Uh…Shawn's at the Psych office. I dropped him off about thirty minutes ago—Sir,_ " he added respectfully.

"Fine," he said, then hung up.

Henry, more irked than ever, dialed the office's number. Hopefully Shawn had put the phone on its charger right side up.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

"Damn it, Shawn!" Henry groused. "Fine, ignore me. See how it feels when I ignore you!" And he hung up, annoyed to no end.

Now he had to figure out what to do with an extra steak.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Lassiter was in good spirits. It had been almost a whole day without the psychic Spencer, and he had gotten loads of work done. Not to say that he'd made progress in the case, but witness testimonies, information on the victim's last movements, and other such vital information had been documented. Juliet hadn't made any headway towards finding the killer, either, but she seemed as relaxed as a murder investigator could be.

Both of the victims had last been seen leaving their places of work to head home, where they lived alone. There was no indication that either had reached their homes. Their cell phones had been on their persons when found less than a mile from their houses, but the batteries had been dead. The men had been missing for nearly two weeks.

Obviously the killer knew how to cover his tracks.

The head detective refused to believe that one of the precinct's own could be responsible for such horror. For one thing, where would find the time to do such unspeakable acts? Sure, it could have been a retired officer—his thoughts went to Henry Spencer then, but he discarded those—but even then it was rather far-fetched.

A very sick man was the culprit. And Carlton Lassiter intended to find him.

"Gus?" Juliet asked across the room.

Lassiter cringed inwardly and looked up, expecting to see the young pharmaceutical salesman standing at her desk. But Juliet was speaking on her phone, brow creased as she listened to the response on the line.

"No, he hasn't been here all day," she said. "But the Chief said he wasn't allowed to be, anyway."

There was a pause as she listened.

"I don't know where he'd be if you can't think of anywhere," she said, eyebrows raising in surprise. Lassiter frowned as well. If the man who knew Shawn better than anyone was unable to locate him, then he was hiding very well. "Not at his apartment or at Psych? Well, I'm sure he hasn't been here. Maybe his dad's house? Or the smoothie joint?"

Another pause.

"You've checked there? Wow. You think of everything. Maybe he went for a drive…?"

As she listened, Juliet's frown reappeared, this time with a bit of concern. "Maybe he took a taxi?" That suggestion sounded lame even to Lassiter. "And left his phone on his desk…Um."

At this point both Lassiter and Henry were listening in on her conversation. Juliet looked up uncertainly and caught Henry's eye. The man got up and crossed the room to her, holding out his hand for the phone. She gave it to him.

"Gus?"

The salesman cut short in his worried tirade.

"Tell me everything you know. Don't leave out a single detail," he commanded.

Gus quickly obliged, starting with Shawn's missing their daily breakfast-palooza. He'd called Shawn several times with no answer, then went to his apartment to pick him up. His bike was gone, so he went to the Psych office. Since the Norton was there, he assumed Shawn was inside and went in, only to find the door unlocked, Shawn's phone on his desk, and no sign of Shawn. He'd checked the smoothie joint they frequented and even drove all the way out to Henry's house, but there was nothing. Then he'd called Jules.

Henry grunted in acknowledgment and hung up, looking very perturbed.

"Chucky," he said. "Shawn said he was being stalked. Maybe he was joking about who it was, but he was really being followed."

Juliet stood up, eyes widening in horrified realization. "The case," she uttered. "The first two were the beginning of a profile…No, it _is_ a profile."

Lassiter finished grimly, "And Shawn fits it."


	3. Chapter 3

3

 _23 hours earlier_

Shawn slammed the Blueberry's door shut and stormed into the Psych office. Gus, unbothered by Shawn's temper tantrum, reversed out of the car park and drove away for work. Despite it being almost four in the afternoon, he still had a few hours ahead of him, and he needed to make those appointments.

Frustrated by his friends' (and father's) neglect, Shawn locked himself into the office, something he never often considered doing. Even Gus hadn't listened to him about his Chucky stalker, brushing it off as soon as Shawn had tried to describe him.

Feeling the familiar prickle of being watched, Shawn looked out of the main window. Sure enough, the stalker was there, across the street, watching. The figure, dressed in a baggy black outfit, was wearing a rubber Chucky mask. The guy was too far for Shawn to make out any identifiable details, or even if it was a guy. He couldn't even be sure that the startling red hair was real or a wig.

It was very creepy.

At first Shawn had thought it funny to see a Chucky walking around in broad daylight. But when it became apparent that the Chucky was following him, it became not so funny. The first day he had brushed it off a random person playing a game; the second day he had brushed it off as a prank; the third day he decided it was a stalker. It seemed the police had the same idea. He'd try to tell them about it again later, once they had cooled off.

Feeling safe in his assumption that the stalker would make no move, Shawn left the window and went to his desk, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. He set it beside the keyboard as he sat, intending to busy himself with some research on the latest victims. He might even hack into the SBPD server later, if time allowed.

He had only typed in his password when he heard a noise at the back door. Shawn froze, cocking his head to listen. The noise came again. Someone was jiggling the doorknob.

Alarmed, Shawn leapt up and crossed to the window.

Chucky was gone.

He immediately went to the front door and unlocked it, then slipped out as silently as possible. Shawn knew he had left his phone, but he couldn't be sure whether Chucky had gotten inside yet, nor whether the stalker was dangerous. Despite his taste for adrenaline and danger, Shawn wasn't going to go back in and find out.

Luckily, his motorcycle keys were still in his front pocket. He fished them out as he walked over to the parked vehicle, casting a glance over his shoulder to look in through the office window. No Chucky inside, as far as he could tell.

Still, better safe than sorry.

Just as he reached the bike, though, a solid something forcefully slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. The person, smaller than him but surprisingly strong, landed on top of him. Shawn reacted as his father had trained him, slamming his elbow back and pushing himself up. His mouth opened to call for help.

Unfortunately, the assailant, whom he assumed to be Chucky, quickly recovered. A hand clamped tightly over his mouth, muffling his cries. He smelled something acrid. Shawn suddenly realized that the glove Chucky was wearing was doused with strong-smelling chemicals that fogged his brain. Chloroform? Something else? He didn't know, couldn't figure it out.

Shawn tried to hold his breath, hoping that someone would walk by and call for help (it was broad daylight, for crying out loud!), but the noxious vapors from the glove caused him to lose consciousness anyway.

His last coherent thought was, _I really wish I was a pro at jackal mode._


	4. Chapter 4

4

Shawn woke with a pounding headache.

With a groan, he tried to bring his hands to his head to cradle it, but found that he was stuck. After a moment he became more alert, and he realized that his hands were bound behind him—cuffed, actually. Something was wrapped around his neck, too, but he couldn't yet figure out what.

Hearing nothing, Shawn deduced that he was alone, wherever he was. It smelled disgusting, like urine and manure and wet dog. He wondered if he was in a barn, but he didn't find that quite right.

The pseudo-psychic finally forced his eyes open, his headache receding slightly.

He was obviously in a basement, lying on his side facing the stairs. The door was shut at the landing, and he was sure it would be locked. Shawn slowly sat up, taking inventory. The room wasn't large, but not small, either. The walls were cement, as was the floor. He shivered as his bare feet touched them. He saw his shoes at the foot of the stairs, too far for him to reach.

A workbench was situated against the far wall, but it and the few tools that lay on it were covered with dust and cobwebs. Unused. Shawn swiveled his head, wincing as his neck was pinched. The chains clinked as he moved, but he did his best to ignore that in favor of noticing the camera mounted in the top corner of the room.

He quickly pieced the evidence together.

Wherever he was, he was sure he was with the killer. Thinking back to the first two victims, Shawn realized that he shared a few similarities with them: he was a white male in his thirties with dark hair, and he lived alone. A profile.

He could deal with that.

But perhaps what made his heart beat so ferociously in his chest was the fact if he _was_ with the killer as he suspected, then he knew what was going to happen to him. The chain around his neck, almost too tight, was probably enough evidence to conclude that he was going to be beaten and—well, not thinking about it made it less real.

Shawn didn't have much time to dwell on it.

The door opened, letting in a bright shaft of light that revealed to Shawn the dark stains on the floor. It was surreal, like one of those horror movies that he and Gus once watched and couldn't sleep for weeks afterward.

The psychic tore his eyes away from the bloodstains and examined his captor. He was slightly surprised to see it was a woman.

She had a friendly smile despite the circumstances, and her bright red hair—dyed—had been neatly combed and pinned. She wore lavender scrubs (which frankly, Shawn thought, clashed with her hair), and white nurse shoes. Her eyes were shadowed.

"Hello," Shawn said.

"Oh, hello," she answered in a high voice. He immediately decided that that was her real voice, and that it was annoying. "I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Nah," Shawn grinned. "But these handcuffs are a little tight. Think you can loosen them?"

She shook her head, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "Sorry."

"Okay. I'm Shawn Spencer, psychic detective."

"Oh, I know who you are," she laughed. "I've known who you are for a long, long time. You're very beautiful, you know that?"

Shawn nodded, though he felt very uneasy. "Well, you must know all about me, then. But I know nothing about you!"

The woman cocked her head. "But you're psychic."

"Hm, yes," Shawn concurred. "But sometimes the spirits aren't in a very giving mood. All they're really giving me is…" He raked his eyes over her, and spotted precisely what he was looking for. "Is that you're married to a left-handed police officer."

She gasped with delight. "Oh, good! I am. He'll be home soon." The nurse leaned forward, eyes glittering. If Shawn had met her under any other circumstance, even he wouldn't have figured she could be capable of kidnapping three men and holding them in her basement. "I can't wait for him to get here! I've wanted to meet you for so long!"

"You always could have just dropped by the office," Shawn said. "We don't make it a practice to turn fans away."

The nurse nodded thoughtfully, but then jumped as though she had been shocked. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm being such a bad hostess, aren't I? You must be hungry."

Before Shawn could say anything, she had practically flown up the stairs, leaving the door open in her wake. The young Spencer took the moment to check the strength of the handcuffs, not really expecting to be able to free himself. He had to try. Of course, the cuffs didn't budge, and he glanced up as his captor reappeared.

She was carrying two bowls in her hands, and carefully descended the stairs so as not to spill anything. The nurse placed the bowls down beside him.

Shawn arched his brows as he realized that they were dog bowls, filled respectively with water and with dry dog food. He raised his eyes to the nurse, who was watching him expectantly. "Thank you," he said slowly, cautiously. "But I'm…not hungry."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" she said good-naturedly, stooping to pick them up again. "We'll save it for later, then. Oh, I have to go for a while. I've got to pay some bills. But my husband will be home later, and then we'll all get started, okay?"

"Okay," Shawn agreed reluctantly.

The woman turned pertly and left with his meal. This time she shut the basement door and locked it behind her.

Shawn let out a slow breath.

He had no way of knowing where he was, unless the police officer was someone he knew, and consequently one who lived at an address Shawn knew. He wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed: it could have been a couple of hours, judging by the light visible from the high basement window, or it could have been the next day. Either way, it was all too likely that no one knew he was missing.

Shawn could only hope that one of his captors would slip up. Either they would leave behind some incriminating evidence that the police would discover, resulting in a search of their house, thus finding Shawn, or they would unlock Shawn's cuffs and leave him to his own devices. He was fairly certain that he could get out of the situation if he only had the use of his hands, even if it was to just send a message out.

All he could do was wait.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Shawn glanced up as the basement door was unlatched and swung open. He didn't recognize the man immediately, but since he was dressed in a police uniform and wore a watch on his right wrist, he was sure he could safely assume that this was the nurse's husband, and that shit was about to hit the fan.

As the officer came closer, Shawn studied his details: blonde hair neatly combed back, intelligent brown eyes, and a lined, tan face with a strong chin. And completely average-looking. No help there. Shawn's eyes flitted down to the nametag.

He gasped. " _Dobson_?! Dude! I've heard so much about you. So many _good_ things! I was looking forward to meeting you! Ugh!"

Dobson made no response. Instead, he looked up to the ground floor landing as his wife reappeared, beaming at him. She pranced down the steps and leaped into his arms, kissing him passionately. Shawn frowned slightly. She didn't _seem_ like she suffered from Stockholm syndrome.

"So," Shawn tried again to strike up a conversation, "you two love birds seem happy together."

They ignored him, and at last pulled away breathlessly.

"Do you like him, John?" she asked, obviously talking about Shawn. "I picked him just for you."

Dobson smiled and brushed a lock of her red hair behind her ear. "Love him, Helen. You always know just what I'm in the mood for."

Partners in crime, lovers. A real Bonnie and Clyde. But much more sadistic and cruel than the old time outlaws. Shawn suppressed a shudder, trying not to remember victim number two lying on the slab as Woody dissected him.

"I'm in the mood for pancakes," Shawn supplied, raising his voice to garner attention. "We could all go out and get some. We could go to Denny's!"

Helen looked expectantly up at Dobson, who appeared to be considering it. Shawn felt hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he could talk himself out of this one.

That hope was rendered obsolete when Dobson lashed out with a foot, striking Shawn square in the solar plexus. Windless, Shawn doubled over and struggled to breathe. He was so caught up in his own inability that he did not notice Dobson drawing his baton from his uniform belt until it was too late.

The thick wand landed sharply on his right shoulder, bruising it down to the bone. Shawn sucked in a ragged breath, stars flashing blindingly at the corners of his vision. A raw yelp was elicited from him with the second strike, this one across the middle of his back just above his bound hands.

Instinctively Shawn rolled onto his side and curled into as small a ball as possible, tucking his head towards his knees in a vain attempt to protect himself. Dobson continued to rain down the blows across Shawn's back and legs, and even his arms.

"Stop!" Shawn howled, voice harsh. "Stop—please!"

He was ignored.

The baton came down again and again until Shawn wasn't sure what hurt and what didn't. It felt as though he was just a bundle of pain.

And then finally, thankfully, Dobson stopped and stepped back, baton held loosely at his side. Shawn trembled, still curled as tightly as he could manage, struggling to bite back his sobs. It _hurt_.

When the roaring of the blood in his ears and the screaming in his head quieted a bit, Shawn registered the sound of a woman's giggling. He dared to glance up through squinted eyes and saw that Dobson was kissing his wife's neck, his hand snaking down her pants. Helen's cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated even more with her arousal.

Shawn was sickened.

The couple locked lips and kissed passionately. Shawn, despite the horrible throbbing in his body, desperately wrung his hands in an attempt to free himself. It was to no avail. They pulled apart, breathing heavily, and Shawn was forced to abandon his course of action.

"Do it now, John," she said airily.

After planting a chaste kiss and stuffing his baton into its holder, Dobson returned to Shawn, who instinctively cringed. To the pseudo-psychic's absolute horror, Dobson knelt onto his knees and rolled him over so as to reach his pants button more easily.

Shawn struggled. This threat was far more terrifying than being shot and kidnapped by Garth Longmore—at least then he still had his dignity, his hope, his ingenuity. Here he could do nothing, bound as he was.

The officer dodged his flailing legs and grasped the chain which was wrapped around his prisoner's neck. He yanked it hard, snapping Shawn's head back and cutting off his airflow. Shawn fought, but the longer he was deprived of oxygen the less he could, and when blackness began to obscure his vision he gave up, and sucked in a much-needed breath when Dobson let go.

But panic overrode his sense to not struggle lest he be punished once more, and Shawn writhed, this time crossing his ankles and drawing up his knees violently. Dobson retaliated swiftly, jerking the chain taut around Shawn's throat.

Shawn felt giddy with terror, gasping and choking noisily, eyes rolling wildly. Spots danced in his eyes, and he went slack. Dobson released the chain and thwacked him hard on the chest as a reminder to breathe, sending the psychic into a coughing fit. While his prisoner was preoccupied, the officer made quick work of his jeans.

When Shawn came to his senses as Dobson rolled him over onto his stomach, his only grateful thought was that his pants had not been completely removed, but pulled down only far enough to give Dobson access to what he wanted. But that was little comfort.

"Please—don't," Shawn rasped one last time, tears of terror leaking from the corners of his eyes.

His hips were lifted roughly in a bruising grip, and something hard and thick prodded him from behind. Shawn's last image before his eyes slammed shut was Helen pushing her scrubs pants down as she looked on, fingers rubbing herself eagerly.

Dobson shoved himself in.

Shawn, unprepared in any way, yelped like a wounded dog, body going rigid. The officer held him tightly, inescapably, and continued to rut into him. One hand reached for the chain and lessened the slack so that Shawn would choke himself if he tried to move away from the pain. He could hear both of them gasping and moaning with pleasure, while all he wanted to do was scream for his mother.

After a moment, Dobson's passage became easier, slicker, but no less painful. Something hot trickled down Shawn's thighs.

He retreated desperately to a childhood memory, immersed himself in it. He was not being savagely raped, but being made by his lecturing father to sit on a tack in order to understand that it was not a prank someone played on anyone, let alone his teacher. Only Shawn replayed the memory again and again and again, timing the sequence so that it coincided with Dobson's rhythm.

He was not being raped.


	6. Chapter 6

6

He felt rabid.

He strained, twisted, writhed, jerked, rubbed, kicked, bit—he tried it all. Nothing helped. He could not free himself, not with his hands bound so tightly behind his back. His notion that he could flay the skin from his hands over a length of time was abandoned. It hurt too much when the metal of the cuffs moved against his exposed raw nerves.

At last Shawn ceased his efforts, chest heaving. Everything hurt: his head, his legs, his arms, his throat, his back. And worse of all, his—well—his back _side_. His only comfort was that his jeans had been pulled back up once the deed had been done.

He tried to even out his breathing, which helped clear his head despite his parchedness. Not that a clear head would help him at all, but logic was man's best friend in this situation. Actually, what Shawn wouldn't give for Lassie at the moment. The dog or the detective. Or both. Or even some strange, impossible hybrid of the two.

Shawn let out a small giggle as he imagined such a creature—Lassiter's angry face on a Labrador's head, and the dog wearing a suit complete with the Glock holsters—but his amusement quickly died away. He shouldn't entertain such ideas, he knew. That would only lead to insanity—real insanity, not his usual craziness that resulted from his overactive mind.

Dobson and his wife had left him alone after Dobson had finished—he shuddered to remember—inside him. They went upstairs, presumably to their bed to have more fun. The basement had grown dark since then, and there was no sound to be heard upstairs. That meant little, though, since Shawn was fairly certain that his prison was soundproof.

How long had it been? Several hours, two days? He didn't know, unsure for how long he had been unconscious from his drugging. Gus wouldn't miss him until breakfast, maybe not even then. It wouldn't be the first time Shawn had blown him off.

No one knew he was gone.

Shawn struggled to hold back tears, feeling helpless and hopeless. He felt abandoned to this fate, to die like those other two. And with Shawn gone, there was no stopping the Dobsons from moving on to more men like him. To torture them. To kill them.

Vaguely he was aware that he was being recorded. The mounted model in the top corner of the basement was certainly a night vision camera, but he doubted that it was activated. For whatever reason they recorded their victims—to sell, to get themselves off, to keep tabs on the prisoners—it was likely in normal mode for better quality. Not that the quality would be great in the dimness.

And then Shawn realized that it was growing lighter. The night had passed, and he'd hardly registered the flow of time.

The basement door swung open, and Shawn cringed at the piercing shaft of light that filtered in. He couldn't tell who it was from the distorted shadow that splayed down the steps, but the heavy steps alerted him that it was Officer Dobson.

Shawn kept still and quiet in dismay and in the hope that he would be left alone.

No such luck.

Dobson descended noisily, the steps creaking in protest under his weight. Shawn's back ached increasingly worse the closer the officer came. But he remained still by sheer force of will, eyes squeezed shut.

He stopped half an arm's length away, eyes shining eerily down at him. "Helen and I have to leave for work," he said, as though explaining this to a child. "We'll be back later."

Shawn's heart might have stuttered to a halt with relief, and he couldn't help but to sag at the glorious news. It was the best thing he could possibly have hoped for.

Until: "Stand up."

The pseudo-psychic retained enough of his personality to look up at the man incredulously, half believing he had heard wrong. But it seemed he hadn't, because Dobson reached down and grasped the chain, forcing Shawn to scurry to his bare feet lest he be hanged by the infernal metal links.

When he was up, back slightly bowed from the bone-deep bruises that protested his sharp movements, Dobson wound the slack of the chain to an ominous hook drilled into the pole directly behind him. If Shawn tried to lower himself he would choke himself. A chilly block of lead was deposited in Shawn's stomach: Dobson and Helen were leaving for work, which meant at least five hours, depending on how long their lunch breaks were, of him standing in fear of hanging.

It was the not the worst.

The officer ambled over to a small box that was innocently sitting on the work bench and brought it over, shaking it so that its contents rattled inside. Shawn watched him warily, shifting from foot to foot. With his hands still bound, he could not even try to protect himself from whatever was coming.

But it seemed that Dobson did not intend to harm him—not then, anyway. He tipped the box, sprinkling the tiny shards of glass at his feet.

Shawn swallowed. If he moved he was sure to embed the razor pieces into his feet, and still he would have to stand until someone returned and let him down. Without so much a smirk or a backward glance, Dobson put the box back and left. Obviously he'd done this before, and had no qualms about leaving Shawn in such a terrifying situation.

The pseudo-psychic miserably resolved to keep absolutely still. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. He ignored every sensation, blocked it out—the throbbing deep in his muscles, the rabbit-like beating of his heart, and the hot something that trickled down his inner thigh and soaked into the fabric of his jeans.

He was not here, anywhere but here.


	7. Chapter 7

7

The police were scrambling to find Shawn with no leads.

The office had been combed over several times, the resident psychic's phone records searched, and even his apartment had been thoroughly checked. Nothing could be found that would indicate his whereabouts. The only signs of him were his phone, left on his desk at the office, and his Norton parked outside. It was unlikely that he had gone anywhere of his own free will, especially without his phone.

And then there was the matter of his claim of being stalked by one Chucky, which had been disregarded by even the police. And because of their lack of seriousness in the face of Shawn's flippant request for help, he was missing. And most likely he was in the hands of the same perpetrator that had killed those first two victims.

Shawn had fit the profile.

But the SBPD were never ones to give up, especially when one of their own was in danger. And the elder Spencer and Gus would never abandon Shawn. Under normal circumstances, none of them would be allowed on the case. But it was not a normal circumstance—all of them were close to the case, perhaps a bit too close, but there was no one else. They were the only ones who might be able to save him before it was too late.

So they continued to work diligently, even to the point of exhaustion. Even Gus had pushed his self-blame aside so as to focus on the task at hand. Time was running out.

They looked in neighbors, past clients, and criminals brought to justice by Shawn Spencer—brutally interrogated them, but with no luck. They wracked their minds for anyone who might have fit the description of Chucky, but of course there was no hope in that direction, either. They went so far as to check all of Shawn's usual haunts in the hopes that he had taken a cab to one of them, neglecting his phone and Norton just to worry them and laugh at them later. Of course it wasn't that.

They had nothing.

Despite their desperation, the case was growing cold fast.

They kept looking.

They should have listened.


	8. Chapter 8

8

Shawn would have wept tears of relief if he weren't so damn terrified of her.

Helen finally returned from work, after eight long, painful hours, and descended the stairs with a broom in hand. She hummed a suspiciously Cinderella-esque tune under her breath as she gently swept away the glass. The shards she collected carefully back into their box and replaced on the workbench. Then Helen set aside the cleaning utensil and cheerfully slackened Shawn's chains.

He collapsed painfully into a grateful heap, quivering with exhaustion.

Somehow he'd managed to keep himself standing in one place for eight eternal hours. There had been several terrifying, woozy moments and he'd thought he might cut his soles, but thankfully he mastered himself each time and remained upright, his aching feet planted firmly.

"Be right back," she said, ascending the steps with the broom.

Shawn paid her no mind. His eyelids drooped heavily. All he wanted was to sleep forever.

But all too soon she was back, apparently bearing gifts. In each hand was a large blue bowl, one most surely filled with water. Helen placed them beside him, smiling tenderly. "Enjoy," she said, reaching out and stroking his stubbly cheek.

Shawn recoiled from her touch, but she didn't seem to mind.

"I'm going to take a shower and get something to eat myself," she said. "I'll be back soon."

He waited until she was gone before he even thought to move. Despite the sharp pains it caused to shoot up his aching legs and back, Shawn shuffled toward the bowls. One, as he thought, was filled with water. The other, he knew by smell alone.

Dry dog food.

He wasn't at all surprised, but it felt demeaning all the same. His stomach rumbled at him as he dipped his face into the water bowl. He considered. His stomach cramped demandingly.

No. No, he wasn't that desperate.

Shawn drank the metallic-tasting water, going so far as to lick the last drops from the plastic bottom, but he left the chow, rolling away from it like a disgruntled child versus broccoli. He still had his dignity despite the circumstances. He wriggled into the most comfortable position he could feasibly attain: knees and chin tucked toward his chest. It put undue pressure on his hip and shoulder, but it was better than lying prostrate.

The exhausted detective closed his eyes and tried to get whatever respite he could.

Before they came back.


	9. Chapter 9

9

Dobson was straddling him, slamming his fists into Shawn's body mercilessly. Sharp knuckles drove into his ribs, his back, his stomach, but Shawn tried desperately to contain his cries, to not resist. Doing so would only encourage them further—a thing he had discovered the hard way.

They always came together to torment him, unless one or the other was feeding him or stringing him up like a fish on a line. Neither bothered to deal with his… _leavings_. After the first time he'd wet himself, simply unable to hold it any longer, Shawn had done his best to pee away from his spot. But that was rather difficult, all things considered: his hands were still shackled behind him, and Dobson was always sure to pull Shawn's jeans back up once he'd finished. Not that Shawn wasn't grateful for that—the air was chilly, but it was all the colder when the piss-soaked material lost its heat. That in itself was torture and humiliating enough.

Once Helen was properly aroused by the vicious beating, Dobson rolled Shawn onto his front and yanked his pant down. Shawn shivered, eyes squeezed shut. Something hard and hot pressed at his sore orifice, but that was all the warning he was granted.

A choked cry escaped his raw throat. It was a harsh sound, more animal than human, and Shawn would not have recognized it as his own had the noise not been accompanied by the familiar, painful strain of the vocal chords. A shuffling sound indicated that Helen was approaching, and he warily spied her from the corner of his eye, dreading the pain that might come from her hand.

She didn't touch him, though; merely pushed down her scrubs bottom and neon green panties with the hand that was already in them, rubbing herself. Dobson, without bothering to stop rutting into Shawn, adjusted his grip so that one handful of the back of his now ruined shirt held him in optimal range. His other hand cupped his wife's buttock fondly and pulled her closer. With a breathy sigh, Helen stepped out of her pants and spread her legs.

Shawn pressed his face against the disgusting floor, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Dobson was performing cunnilingus—loudly. Helen's pleasured cries grew in intensity, and in proportion Dobson's cock grew harder inside of Shawn, pumped his hips faster.

It hurt.

It _hurt_.

But it didn't hurt forever, because it eventually stopped. The demons, as Shawn was certain they must have been, finally _finished_ after a while. He couldn't have said how long it had lasted—minutes, hours, _days_ , maybe—but it stopped. Shawn was more grateful for that than that they left him some food and water in the dog bowls before leaving.

Every nerve in his body was thrumming with a dull pain, more piercing in some places than others. His mouth and throat were horribly dry, as though he had wandered the Sinai desert for forty years. His stomach cramped. He wanted to throw up, but he couldn't. There was nothing _to_ regurgitate, and his mouth was too dry to boot. His head pounded—a telltale sign of dehydration, but he didn't yet have the strength to move towards his bowl.

Shawn wanted to go home—his dad's house home, not lonely apartment home. He wanted his dad to yell at him for being so irresponsible, Mom to comfort him, Gus to cheer him up, Jules and Lassie to stand in the background looking sympathetic and unreasonably aggressive, respectively. He wanted Buzz to bring him a pineapple smoothie, and the churro guy to give him a churro. But mostly, he just wanted his dad to protect him. And a long, hot shower. But mostly his dad.

He let out a little manic giggle that turned into a short, heaving sob.

Then he wrested his emotions back into some semblance of control. Spencers didn't cry. They _survived_. Hell if Shawn knew how to get out of this one, though. It certainly seemed that no one was coming for him.

Shawn somehow managed to inchworm his way to the water bowl. He felt his jeans slip a little down his waist, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Water was his goal, the only thing that mattered. Tap water had never tasted so good to him—at the moment it was up to par with pineapple smoothies—no, _better_ than any pineapple smoothie ever made. He lapped up every last drop his tongue could reach, savoring the precious resource.

But it wasn't enough.

Shawn's heavy eyes slid toward the second bowl.

Degrading. Disgusting. Unspeakable. Horrifying.

Starving.

Shawn couldn't be sure how long it had been since he'd been kidnapped. He was certain that it was a few days, at least. Between three and five, taking into account the hours that had slipped by unnoticed.

If he was going to escape, he needed the strength to do it with. If he was going to gain strength, he was going to eat Kibble or Purina or Pedigree or whatever the hell brand they'd given him. He hesitantly scooted towards it, wincing as his tender skin scraped the rough cement floor. The stench of his dinner alone made him cringe.

"How the hell…" he rasped, "…do dogs eat this stuff?"

There was no helping it.

He took several calming breaths, face turned from the bowl so as to escape the hideous odor. Once he'd gathered up his courage, he lowered his face and took a rather small bite. Only a few pieces entered his mouth, but it was more than enough for Shawn to realize just how awful they were.

As one would expect, the food was dry and crunchy—definitely hard to chew regardless of the taste. It was a bit like trying to bite into a lollipop without sucking it down first. The grainy texture covering the hard balls of concentrated nutrients were slightly bitter, like dirt. Perhaps it _was_ dirt. He wouldn't know.

Shawn wanted nothing more than to spit it out, but he persevered. It was the only way.

He had to.

There was no choice.

And his stomach demanded food, anyway.

But no matter how much he tried to console himself, to tell himself that it was necessary and unavoidable, he was ashamed. He could only imagine what his father would think, what _Gus_ would think. Even Jules and Carlton and Chief and Woody and everyone else from SBPD—except for Dobson; he didn't even want to know what Dobson thought of him. He thought he had already a pretty good idea, though.

He could practically see himself lying on a slab in the SBPD morgue, Woody poking and prodding at his cold body as he explained the trauma to his favorite detectives Lassie and Jules, and the Chief and his father. Gus was nowhere to be seen, but a faint vomiting sound alerted him to his presence. Shawn half thought that perhaps he was a hopeful ghost, standing by as he waited for his audience to identify his killer. But then he saw the looks on everyone's faces.

Chief Vick shook her head disapprovingly as Woody finished.

"Kid got what he deserved," Henry said gruffly, arms folded over his chest. "Couldn't keep himself out of trouble for one day!"

"Good riddance," Lassiter said. Dobson suddenly entered the room, though he had no apparent reason for being there. The floor tilted dizzyingly under Shawn's feet. The head detective clapped the officer on the shoulder. "Congrats, Dobson," he said proudly. "You really know how to take care of nuisances!"

A wicked smile turned up Dobson's lips.

Juliet stepped toward the examining table, looking down queerly at Shawn's body. Then her face crumpled and she moved back. Her eyes slid to ghost Shawn, and his heart sank into his stomach at the look of pure hatred.

" _Disgusting_ ," she hissed at him.

Shawn vomited, water and bile making a cereal of the dog food. Groaning miserably, he rolled away from it and curled into as tight a ball as he could manage. He shivered and tried to hold back his tears.

"It's okay," he whispered, rocking slightly despite the pain it caused him. "It's okay…It's okay…It's okay…"

But all he could hear in his mind was the accusatory sound of Juliet's single word.


	10. Chapter 10

10

"Disgusting!" Juliet hissed, lifting her heeled foot from a wad of moldy diaper.

Henry, waist deep in the dumpster behind the Psych office, ripped open another large garbage bag and plunged his arm into it. Whatever he pulled out he cast aside, looking grimmer and more determined with each passing minute. He was unwilling to give up the search on his only son, especially when he _knew_ what was being done to him, possibly at that very moment. His stomach recoiled at the thought, but he suppressed the urge to vomit and continued digging through weeks' worth of trash in all states of stench and decay.

Time was slipping by like water through a crack in a dry riverbed. It had been four days since Shawn's kidnapping. There was no time to sit idly and wait for his son's body to be found by some unsuspecting hiker God knows where.

He wasn't giving up.

Juliet, having finished scraping old baby poo off her shoe on the ground, looked up at the elder Spencer. They all looked haggard, sure, but Henry was much worse off. Understandable, of course, considering it was his son. But enough was enough.

"Mr. Spencer," she said tentatively.

He grunted in acknowledgment, but did not stop in his ministrations.

"Mr. Spencer, a team already went through there," she said softly but firmly. "They didn't find anything."

Henry ignored her. Even if this was a waste of time, he wasn't just going to sit around his house or the police station waiting for news like an army wife—or be hospitalized for shock like Gus. Lassiter was completing paperwork at the station.

"Mr. Spen—"

"Shut up!" he snapped, throwing a glass beer bottle he'd picked up at the far wall, where it shattered noisily.

Juliet's jaw clicked shut, eyes widening in hurt. Henry instantly felt guilty, but not enough to stop what he was doing.

"Sorry," he said gruffly as he tore open another bag. There were only a few left; he'd been at it for several hours, and Juliet had left around an hour into it and only just returned to check on him.

"It's okay," she said tiredly, but sincerely, "but…Mr. Spencer?"

Henry had frozen, staring at something in the bag he had eviscerated. Concerned, Juliet approached the filthy trash receptacle, dodging all sorts of disgusting odds and ends that littered the alleyway. The man looked up—or rather, down—as she reached him.

"I need an evidence bag," he said, voice hardly above a whisper.

Heart leaping into her throat, Juliet peered over the edge of the bin and looked at the gaping tear in the bag he still held.

A frizzy red wig coated with what appeared to be gravy partially obscured a shining piece of plastic—part of a Halloween mask, she was sure. She felt as though she would faint when she suddenly recognized what it was.

It was Chucky.


	11. Chapter 11

11

Shawn had to act, and soon. He knew as much, but all the same he wished he hadn't had to resort to _this_ half-baked plan. He devised it as soon as he had been strung up and left alone, _again_ , the chains biting into the tender flesh of his neck and with shards of glass round his bare feet. His toes were numbed by the cold, but he knew that they would all too readily inform him of the stabbing pain that would surely result should he move them.

He waited for several minutes after he heard both cars pull out of the driveway, rumbling engines fading as they left. Both had gone to work—it seemed they worked practically the same schedule. Shawn would be gone by the time they got back. He wasn't going to stick around for his "punishment," as Helen called it. Apparently it was wrong to waste food in their household. Shawn shuddered to think of what the punishment would entail; if he was treated so horribly under _normal_ circumstances…

But he wouldn't be there. Shawn was escaping.

His right hand gingerly grasped his left thumb. He'd tried repeatedly to slip the cuffs, but they were just too tight. There was no chance of picking the lock, even if he did have the right materials. He had no leverage with them.

His only chance was what he was doing now—his last resort, since it was obvious that he wasn't going to be found.

He sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth in preparation. Then, before he could lose courage, he twisted his thumb sharply. He heard the resulting crack an instant before the pain registered.

A deep moan forced its way up from his belly, but he did not grant himself a respite. He had less than a few minutes before his dislocated—or broken, he couldn't tell which—thumb swelled up like a balloon, rendering his efforts moot. With his thumb out of the way, practically folded into his palm, he was able to weasel the appendage free from the cuff. The blood from his wrist helped to slick the way.

Shawn swayed on his feet, his field of vision darkening alarmingly.

 _No!_

He desperately tried to breathe, but suddenly realized that he was hanging himself from the chain. Unthinkingly he readjusted his feet and stood. Lancing, unbearable pain in the bottoms of his feet made him momentarily forget his hand. He tried to move back into his original position, but that only embedded the glass shards deeper.

" _Ffffuuuuck!"_ he sobbed, reaching his hands up to the chain. If he could only unwrap them, then he could move away from there, remove the pieces, and hobble upstairs to a phone. Gasping and hissing through his teeth, Shawn blindly searched for the end of the chain round his neck.

He discovered something at the back of his neck. Despair filled him as he explored it.

It was a padlock.

"No," he uttered, tugging at it. "No no no no _no_!"

Stomach sinking like a rock, he suddenly remembered the key ring that he often spotted dangling from Dobson's belt. He'd thought it looked a bit too janitor-esque on a police officer, but he hadn't had much cause to think of it.

The Dobsons really weren't taking much chance with him.

His feet and hand were in agony, but there was no helping it. Any movement only intensified the excruciating pain. He half considered just hanging himself, ending the Dobsons' fun before they could torment him further.

But no, Shawn was too much a coward to do that.

He would just have to rethink the plan. Form another plan. Shawn would get out of it—he always did. Everything would be fine.

"Think of th' plan," he whispered to himself, eyes screwed up from the pain. "Think of th' plan…"

But it was rather difficult to think of the plan, especially when there _was_ no plan. In addition, his feet were in total agony. The shards of glass might have been red-hot nails for all Shawn could feel. As much as he wanted to relieve the pain, he could find no other option but to stand as still as possible. If he moved, he would cut his soles even worse and possibly hang himself. It was imperative that Shawn not give in to unconsciousness—to lose consciousness was to die.

Despite what many people thought of him, Shawn had a very strong sense of self-preservation. He wasn't going to die if he could help it.

Who would make sure Gus watched all the important marathons? Who would sabotage his dad's tackle box, tangle up all the fishing line and misplace the lures? Who would slurp smoothies in the bull pen as obnoxiously as possible to annoy Lassie? Who would send the Chief anonymous flowers on her bad days? Who would make Jules laugh at dumb jokes? Only Shawn could do all of those things. He _had_ to survive!

Hours later, when at last he heard the familiar, dreadful sound of the door opening that preceded the Dobsons' arrival, he had somehow managed to dredge up a last-resort, desperate, snowball's-chance-in-hell plan. Shawn had very little confidence in the plan, if it could be called that. It relied very heavily on _luck_ , of all things, and though he usually did rely on that in this instance he had never quite needed it more.

The door opened, and down clomped the happy couple.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, dulled his pain, heightened Shawn's senses, and gave him energy he certainly would not have had otherwise. He quickly hid his hands behind his back, pretending that he was as he had been left. He spared no thought to the ludicrousness of his plan. It had to work.

Helen moved forward and swept away the glass. Half-congealed blood that had puddled round his bare feet was dragged along like thick red paint on a dry brush. Shawn suppressed the sudden image of Helen being awarded a blue ribbon for remarkable art (" _So beautiful, so emotional_ ," _Gus applauded, wiping a tear from his eye as Carlton blew his nose into a handkerchief_.)

As she completed her task, Dobson stepped forward and unhooked the chain, allowing Shawn to collapse—but, with the last vestiges of his strength, Shawn instead propelled himself forward, bringing his hands to the front. The officer had been completely unprepared; Helen had her back to the scene as she put away the glass shards for later use. Shawn unholstered the heavy gun at Dobson's waist and tugged it free.

Finally coming to his senses, Dobson snatched at it, but only succeeded in knocking Shawn aside. "No!" he grunted, diving for the gun again.

Helen whipped around in time to see Shawn switch off the safety, writhing to keep the deadly mechanism out of her husband's reach. Her mouth opened in an 'o' of surprise, but she did not move to help, apparently too stunned to fully comprehend what was happening.

Dobson yanked hard on the chain around Shawn's neck. Every muscle in his body instinctively went taut—the gun discharged with an eardrum-shattering _BANG_! He barely heard Helen's shriek over the ringing in his ears, the dull thud and clatter as she fell back into the workbench and then to the floor, clutching at her thigh as blood pumped profusely. The bullet had ripped open her femoral artery. The officer and prisoner continued to grapple, more fervently than before. Choking and coughing harshly, Shawn clutched at it tighter than ever, eyes squeezed shut. Dobson gave a particularly hard tug, inadvertently causing Shawn to pull the trigger again. Another deafening bang, and Dobson wrenched the gun from Shawn's weakened grasp at last.

The fight was over.


	12. Chapter 12

12

It had taken hours to get the results back. _Hours_. Never before had Henry appreciated the nerve-wracking despair that many people went through as they waited on DNA results. It was maddening. He and Gus crowded an irritated Lassiter as he ripped open the manila envelope that contained the information found on the mask and wig. His slightly bloodshot eyes scanned the lines across the page quickly, his brow furrowed deeply.

"Well?" snapped Henry, resisting the urge to snatch the papers from him.

Lassiter scowled. "Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing useful, at least."

Henry gave in to his urge. "Damn it," he growled, rifling through it and finding that the detective was right. "Damn it all!"

Gus sank into the nearest chair, head in his hands. Then he looked up, eyes filled with some unreadable emotion. "Shawn—" his voice cracked, but he tried again. "Shawn, he said… _left-handed police officer_ , didn't he? Then all we—all we have to do is—!"

Juliet shook her head. "Even if we did go around checking, there's no telling which precinct the cop is from, or if it's a current officer or a retired one—or even a trainee."

Gus deflated, looking as though he were on the verge of a tearful collapse again.

Henry shoved the papers back into their official envelope and then shoved it at Lassiter, who automatically reached up and clutched it to his chest to prevent the thing from falling. The elder Spencer spun on his heel and stormed out, then got into his truck and peeled (a bit illegally) out of the SBPD parking lot. Only once he was sure he was out of sight of anyone who might recognize him did he allow his fury to be replaced with grief.

It had been five days. His son was as good as dead, if those other bodies—other _boys_ —was anything to go by. And it was all his fault.


	13. Chapter 13

13

Grunting and gasping with tremendous effort, Shawn _somehow_ managed to push himself out from underneath Dobson. And it was easy task, because let's face it, Dobson was not a scrawny man—he was probably a high school linebacker, judging from his rather heavy build. He scooted away as quickly as he could, chest heaving. Shawn gave Dobson a sharp prod with the heel of his foot to check for signs of life.

There was none. The gun was in Dobson's limp hand, but it was of no use to anyone at the moment.

Shawn twisted his head around, limited by the chain though he was, and spotted Helen lying crumpled in a pool of her own blood nearby. Her eyes were staring up, glazed over. She drew no breath. The couple were dead.

A hysterical notion entered his head then: perhaps the Dobsons had a murderous child, or some other relative who would be upstairs or on their way to visit. He had to get out, immediately. Nearly hyperventilating at this point, Shawn scrambled to Dobson's body and fought to remove the key ring from his belt. It didn't budge—not until a flash of insight had Shawn using that twisted bit of wire to open the ring.

Some keys went flying off the other end, but he clutched at them with grubby fingers, desperately trying to find the right one. He instantly discarded the long ones, and the ones that obviously were car or house keys. The fleeting, frustrated question of _Why does he need so many damned keys?!_ passed through his head.

At last he found it, and he shakily tried to stab the key into its lock at the nape of his neck. He missed several times, having to resort to using his broken left hand to hold the padlock steady enough to insert the device.

Once freed, he threw away his shackles and took several deep breaths. They did not calm him—in fact, it only became clearer that he needed to escape, to find help. He was quite beyond scared.

Searing pain crippled him once he tried to stand. Then he remembered the glass embedded in his feet, but he could spare no time to dig them out—and he didn't think he'd be able to, anyway. They were just too deep.

Shawn resorted to crawling—it was painstakingly slow, but it was as fast as he could possibly manage. He could only hope that it was fast enough. Shawn had forgotten that the Dobsons might have phones. The thought never occurred to him. He was simply desperate to escape.

Escape.

Escape.

 _Escape._

He crawled forth, left arm cradled around his ribcage, gasps harsh in his parched throat. The stairs presented a difficult obstacle, but one he conquered nonetheless (encouraged on by a gruff voice that sounded suspiciously like Henry). A slick streak of blood was left on the doorknob after several attempts at turning the thing, the dangling handcuff clacking against the reinforced wood, and smeared red handprint on the door where he had pushed it open.

He found himself in a small kitchen with hardwood floors, very clean and Pine-Sol-smelling. That was as much as he could see in his state, having to crawl. Shawn moved toward the nearest doorway—it led to a beige-carpeted living room. A 72-inch plasma screen TV hung on the far wall in front of a leather sofa and recliner, dark storm clouds and shadowy trees reflected across the screen from the window. He pushed the hyperawareness to the back of his mind in favor of struggling on towards the front door.

It appeared to be unbolted, thank God, and opened more easily than the heavy basement door. He practically fell out onto the concrete steps. For a moment he rested, placing his burning brow against the cool stone. The sudden, heart-stopping sound of a creak behind him spurred him into motion. If he were in any right state of mind he might have realized that the sound was only the door creaking in the wind, but all thoughts suddenly turned to a bloodied Dobson and wife standing over him, grinning eerily.

The terrifying image was enough to release another wave of adrenaline. Shawn pushed himself up onto his feet and stumbled forward, bent nearly double with both arms pressed against his screaming ribs. He took little notice of his surroundings—only enough to see that there were no neighbors but the forest on both sides, and the sky was dark with heavy storm clouds. He pushed on, looking like a bedraggled zombie, down the dirt driveway, pain searing through every nerve. Blood roared in his ears, and his heart beat sluggishly fast. He felt oddly disconnected.

But Shawn suddenly tripped on the edge of the blacktop road, crashing hard. He heard rather than felt another bone in his left hand snap—or perhaps it was the same broken bone. He tried and failed to get back onto his feet. His strength was abandoning him.

"C'mon…" he gasped out, fixating his blurry sight into the distance. The road leapt and bucked, and he fought to keep his grip. "C'mon…!"

 _Just put one foot in front of the other_ …Feeling entirely reminiscent of the Claymation Jack Frost somehow made the situation more surreal. Shawn, with the ridiculously catchy song playing in his head, somehow managed to keep crawling, despite the increasing chill. It was excruciatingly slow going. What felt like eternity to Shawn was several hours, his journey from the basement to the road. Evening transitioned into night, and the air grew colder and his surroundings almost pitch black.

When at last he realized that the iciness that had begun to sap his strength was caused by the rain that had started up early morning, he had already collapsed. A wracking shiver ran the length of his body. Shawn fought to keep his eyes open, somehow knowing that he shouldn't sleep but unable to quite work out the reasoning behind that. It was a losing battle.

Less than three hundred feet from the Dobsons' driveway at three in the morning in a drizzling rain, Shawn lost consciousness.


	14. Chapter 14

14

Buzz dragged a hand down his face and shook his head to clear it. If there was one thing he hated, it was working the night shift. And if there was anything he hated more than the night shift, it was responding to false burglary calls far out of town in the middle of the night. Especially when one of his friends was missing.

The thought of Shawn suffering made a cold ice cube slid down into the pit of his stomach. The psychic certainly never deserved that. Buzz shook his head again and tried not to think about it. He still had several hours in his shift left, and he didn't want to spend it moping. He wanted to be productive, useful.

He was sure that Shawn would be found. Safe and sound.

At least, he was sure that Shawn would be telling him that if he could, just to make Buzz feel better. The psychic was just that sort of wonderful person.

The rain had finally begun to stop, so Buzz switched off the wipers. He still drove a bit more slowly than the regular speed limit. Although the cruiser's tires were new and well-treaded, he always felt it was better to be safe than sorry. The road was deserted, anyway, but the dark forest on either side of him was decidedly creepy, particularly this time of night. Or morning, actually, considering it was about 4:30 am.

Buzz let off of the gas pedal a bit as he rounded a corner, but then gasped and slammed on the brakes. The cruiser screeched to a stop on the slick road, the high beams illuminating a lone figure a ways ahead. The man was lying prostrate at the edge of the road, unmoving.

"Oh, no," the rookie breathed, an ice cube sliding down his stomach. A hit and run, he was sure.

The young officer quickly unbuckled and climbed out of the police car, shooting off a quick prayer that the poor guy was still alive. His hopes were low, though, because as he neared he caught the dark stains on the man's shirt, which was soaked through and clung to his pale skin. He knelt beside him and pressed his fingers to his jugular, holding his breath.

It was faint, and slow, but a pulse was there.

Instincts kicking in, Buzz grasped the talkie on his shoulder and spoke into it. "Dispatch, this is Officer McNab. I need an ambulance to Mountain Drive, near the intersection of El Cielito. I have a hit and run, I think."

The radio crackled, informing him that his information and request was being relayed. "Do you have the victim's condition?"

Buzz gently moved the man to get a better look at him without moving him from his position. His heart skipped a few beats. The beard was scruffier than usual, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who it was: "Shawn…"

And then he was moving, more determined than ever. As Buzz hurried back to his cruiser, he watched his surroundings warily and spoke into the talkie again. "The victim is missing person Shawn Spencer. It is not a hit and run. Contact Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara. ETA on the bus?"

"Ambulance ETA eight minutes," responded Dispatch. "Backup ETA ten minutes."

"10-4."

Handing moving to the gun holstered at his hip, the officer kept an ear and eye out for any movement and popped the trunk of the car. There was a blanket in there for emergencies, and this was certainly an emergency. Shawn was blue in the lips, and wasn't shivering, a definite sign of severe hypothermia. Scratchy blanket tucked firmly under one arm, Buzz practically sprinted back to his friend. With one last look around to confirm that no one was sticking close so as to finish Shawn off, Buzz started to work.

"Come on, Shawn," he muttered, trying to get the freezing wet clothes off of him while moving the injured man as little as possible. "Shawn, can you hear me? Shawn!"

He gave up on the shirt for the moment and decided that it would be easier to take off his jeans. Buzz moved to do so, not fully comprehending the implication behind the fact that the waistband was already unbuttoned. He had hardly pulled them halfway down his buttocks when Shawn suddenly stirred, making a small noise in his throat.

"Shawn!" Buzz said. "Hold on, just let me—"

Shawn didn't seem to hear him, eyes wide but unseeing. He reached down towards Buzz's hands and tried to pry them away, but his cold, stiff fingers could only scrabble helplessly at the officer's knuckles. When Shawn tried to crawl away, Buzz abandoned his task and resorted to wrapping the blanket over his wet clothes, hoping at least to warm him a little.

It broke his heart to see Shawn like this, disoriented and sluggish—and scared.

"Shawn, listen to me," Buzz said, a bit loudly in an attempt to break through Shawn's haze. The psychic's eyes began to droop, his muscles going lax once more. "No, no, don't go to sleep! Shawn, stay awake! Please, Shawn!" He shook him a little, but it did not rouse him.

Buzz sat back on his heels and listened, heart in his throat, for the sound of sirens. So far, nothing.

"Dispatch," he said in a shaky voice, thumbing the talkie. "ETA on that ambulance?"


	15. Chapter 15

15

Lassiter pressed the pedal harder, jerking the wheel back into position as they went over a puddle. The flashing, blaring light attached to the roof of his hybrid barely gave people enough time to pull over out of the way. He was pushing the car to its limit in the confines of the city. Juliet had wanted to call Henry and Gus to inform them, but Lassiter barked at her to do no such thing. They would only come to the crime scene and arrest any efficiency, cause trouble for the EMTs. She didn't argue the point, only watched the lightening sky as dawn approached.

They had been informed that Shawn had been found less than five minutes ago. Once the address had been given them they had wasted no time in getting out of the door. Their shifts had ended the previous evening, but both had stayed at the station hoping to find some new, impossible lead. And now the partners were glad they had, even though it had probably just been chance that Shawn was discovered. And _alive_.

Tension was high as they arrived on scene about four minutes later, Lassiter parking far enough away to give the ambulance plenty of room to maneuver. The EMTs were already at work, emergency bag open beside them as they tried to stabilize their patient. As they got out of the car, blue and red lights dancing across them and creating demented shadows in the trees around them, one of the paramedics ripped open a package and unfolded a metallic-looking blanket. She wrapped it around the incredibly small-looking figure on the ground, then, with a nod to her partner, lifted and transferred him onto the waiting gurney.

Before either detective could get a good look at the shadowed face, the gurney was loaded into the bus and the doors shut. The male paramedic hurried around to the driver side and climbed inside, then sped off, siren wailing. A pair of officers was left marking the crime scene with tape, snapping photos of evidence because it looked as though the rain might start up again. A tall, lone figure was standing near a cruiser.

"McNab!" Lassiter barked, immediately making for him.

Startled, the rookie looked up, then straightened respectfully. He was wringing a wadded blanket in his hands, one that they recognized as the one that came provided with the cruisers. "Detectives," he greeted, subdued.

"Tell us everything, McNab."

So he did, starting with the false burglary call and the drive back to the station from it, finding what he thought at first to be a hit and run, and the discovery of Shawn. Lassiter pressed for details—"Which direction did it look Spencer came from? Or was he dropped off here, did it look like? How long did Spencer appear to have been here? Focus, McNab!"

But Buzz could only guess. "He…He was soaked through, so he's probably been here for at least two hours prior to my arrival…I think the knees of his jeans were dirty, like he'd been crawling…Oh, there's a driveway a few feet back that way, and it looked as though Shawn were heading away from it…"

"Let's go," Lassiter said. He drew his Glock and held it loosely at his side as he, a stricken but determined Juliet, and Buzz stalked down the road. The latter officer only paused by his cruiser for a moment to retrieve a strong-beamed flashlight. Though it was morning, it was still cloudy, and the trees cast dark shadows about them. The light bounced off the mailbox at the end of the upcoming drive.

"This is Dobson's house," Juliet said, voice quavering so slightly that Lassiter almost missed it. He said nothing, though, and when he turned and saw the looming house, lights still on through the windows, saw the front door standing open, swaying in the breeze, saw the Santa Barbara cruiser parked in the car shed next to a blue Prius, deep self-loathing burned the back of his throat. He distinctly remembered, during the department softball team tryouts, that Dobson was left-handed—and he _sucked_ , but that was beside the point.

They went into police mode, guns held at the ready and slightly crouched so that they would be ready in an instant to run for cover. Lassiter entered first, shouldering the door all the way open with a crash and shouting into the home, "SBPD! Don't move!" Gun pointing in each direction he looked, he led the way in to clear the scene, finding no one in any of the rooms. In the back of his mind, he knew he'd probably find them at the end of the blood trail that led to the kitchen (Shawn had obviously crawled the entire way, which he knows would not have been a fast process and would have given Dobson plenty of time to catch up and finish him off; Dobson hadn't, so that meant he was incapacitated).

"Down here!" came Juliet's voice.

Lassiter, knowing from her tone that there was no danger, holstered his gun and followed her voice. McNab joined him in the kitchen, trying to avoid stepping on the evidence. As far as Lassiter could tell, Shawn had use of only his right hand, which would have impeded his progress even more. The fake psychic could have been exposed to the elements for much longer than anticipated. The hope that had flared up in him upon realizing Shawn was alive was taking another severe plummet. His chances certainly didn't look good, especially if he was in the same condition as the previous victims.

He and McNab descended the creaking steps to the basement, careful to walk close to the rail to avoid more blood. His partner was already standing at the base of the steps, overlooking the scene. Lassiter joined her. A moment later, Buzz made a strangled noise and rushed back up the steps, most likely to vomit. It certainly wasn't his first murder scene—not even his most gruesome—but somehow, just knowing that this was where Shawn had been for the last six days made it all the more horrifying.

There was a support beam in the center of the room, where Dobson lay, a discarded, rusty chain wrapped around it. Dobson's gun lay near him, forgotten, obviously the weapon that had been used. A woman in scrubs, presumably his wife, was farther away, a bullet to the leg having been what killed her. The officer himself, after a moment of scrutinizing in the darkness, had a shot to the chest. Lassiter tore his gaze away from the appalling sight, and his eyes roamed the rest of the room.

"Camera," he pointed out in the corner. "We can find where it's feeding, get evidence from there."

"He's left-handed," Juliet whispered sadly, still staring at Dobson, whom she had believed to be a friend. He had offered her comforting words when Shawn had disappeared, and she had been none the wiser—it was Dobson who had kidnapped and held him.

Lassiter swallowed tightly, unsure what to say. Finally, his tongue found something that seemed right: "I hate when Spencer's right."


	16. Chapter 16

16

Shawn was in the ICU for over a week before he was deemed well enough to be moved to a regular room. His dad and Gus (posing as his adopted brother) had been the only ones allowed in to see him for hour-long intervals twice a day for the first week. They'd had to scrub up and wear surgical gowns, as the doctors feared any infection would kill Shawn in his already severely weakened state.

By the time he was brought in via ambulance, Shawn had developed a nasty case of pneumonia, which hadn't helped him in the slightest. His left thumb had been broken, but it was not a clean break. When he'd fallen on it, the bone had rotated and splintered. The deformity had required surgery, but that was put off due to the seriousness of his other injuries. He'd been intubated to help him breathe; a nasogastric tube had been fed through his nose to his stomach to deliver desperately needed nutrition; the glass was removed from his feet and those deep wounds stitched closed; and then they had needed to rush him off to emergency surgery when they realized one of the tears in his rectum had actually been so deep that it had caused a perforated bowel. Even after all that, Shawn had to be kept sedated. Whenever he did manage to wake, it was with great pain and confusion, and he tried to fight the hands that helped him, and generally writhed on the bed in some sort of escape attempt, tangling his tubes and wires and choking on the respirator.

But at last, the antibiotics seemed to have done their job. He was taken off the respirator, much to everyone's relief, and it was replaced with a cannula to supply him with fresh oxygen. He was moved from the ICU to surgery to fix his hand, and from there to recovery, and then, _finally_ , to a private room that Henry insisted on paying for. He continually called Maddie to update her on Shawn's condition, but he'd still received no reply—she was still in Africa on her three-week safari.

The first time Shawn woke in that room, he'd barely been conscious for a minute, but at least hadn't tried to fight. Henry wasn't sure whether he was just too exhausted or had finally seemed to realize where he was, but he hoped it was the latter. The second time had been when Henry accidentally knocked something over, and had groaned when he'd bent to retrieve it. By the time he had sat up again, Shawn was blinking blearily at him, lips slightly parted as though he were going to say something. But before Henry could tell him, "Welcome back, son," Shawn was once again asleep.

It didn't take Henry long to figure out that the cycle of waking and sleeping had nothing to do with his son's pain levels. Once he'd gotten up to use the restroom, but had stopped short upon hearing a small, hoarse noise behind him. He turned to see that Shawn was staring at him, clear terror in his eyes. Heart and stomach clenching, Henry returned to his side, only for the kid to relax and go right back to sleep.

Shawn didn't want to be alone.

Of course he didn't want to be alone, Henry had thought. More likely than not he'd been kept in that dark, nasty basement alone for hours on end, afraid that his life could be ended at any moment, that at _any moment_ someone would come and hurt him. No one had come to save him—and, Henry realized with a pang, might have thought no one was searching for him—and now that Shawn had managed to save himself, he wanted to be protected, to _know_ that he was being protected and cared for by familiar faces, not by strangers in scrubs. The scrubs that probably constantly reminded him of that bitch who had helped Dobson take him.

Anger boiled up in Henry's gut.

A tired-looking Gus finally returned with their muddy, bitter coffee, but Henry didn't move. _Full bladder be damned_ , he'd thought, taking a small sip.

There was a small, almost tentative knock at the door that didn't belong to the nurses or doctors. Henry glanced up to see Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara, the latter being the one to have knocked. Both looked a bit uncomfortable and more than a little tired. This would be the first time they'd actually see Shawn, rather than relying on Gus' updates. Henry nodded, and they entered.

Shawn's eyes fluttered as though he felt their presence, but he did not wake. He continued to sleep, chapped lips slightly parted. Henry had taken to shaving Shawn every few days, using an electric razor. It was just about the only thing the nurses would let him do regarding his son's care. The only thing he disliked about it was seeing the bruises lining Shawn's jaw and throat—the latter bearing clear imprints of heavy chain links. Beneath the blankets keeping him comfortably warm, Henry knew that much worse damage had been done. Damage that could have (and almost did) result in his son's death. Tubes and wires snacked under the covers and Shawn's paper-thin gown, each having a function that was explained to Henry but most of which he had tuned out.

"How is he?" Juliet asked, voice hushed.

Henry didn't know how to respond to that. What was he supposed to say? Better? Physically, yes, but there was no telling what was going on in his son's head. He was never awake for more than three minutes a time, and even for those precious seconds Shawn had to struggle to stay awake, let alone speak.

He must have remained silent for a little too long because Juliet said, "Sorry. That was a stupid question…"

The elder Spencer shook his head. "No, he's…I don't know. I couldn't tell you, Detective…How's the investigation going?" Fishing for answers, yearning to know what exactly had happened to Shawn. How could he help his son if he didn't know what had happened?

"We've been removed from the case," Lassiter said, sounding bitter. "The entire force is under investigation now thanks to that bastard." 'That bastard' being Dobson, of course.

They fell silent then. There was nothing really left to say.

After a while of standing vigil at Shawn's beside, the detectives took their leave. They may have been taken off Spencer's case, but crime hadn't stopped in Santa Barbara in the meanwhile. Gus fell asleep in his chair on Shawn's left side, neck at an awkward angle that would hurt when he woke. Henry remained awake, watching his son sleep.

It was the least he could do.


	17. Chapter 17

17

As the bruises faded and the haunted look in Shawn's eyes receded, it was almost possible to believe that what had happened had never, well, happened.

He slept mostly for the first four days in the hospital, then remained awake for longer periods of time to eat and regain his strength for the next week. Two weeks into his stay had him restless, constantly pestering to be discharged and (rather forcedly perhaps) flirting with any cute nurse that even passed by his doorway. Finally, _finally_ , Shawn had been released into the care of his father, though Shawn didn't complain about that (much).

His most dedicated visitors were, of course, his father and Gus, who rarely left unless they were forced. Juliet came as often as she was able, sometimes "dragging" her partner with her. Buzz was a frequent face in Shawn's hospital room, always bearing pineapple smoothies. Even the Chief dropped by once or twice just to see how he was doing. Shawn confessed loudly that he was disappointed in the churro guy for not coming.

But soon enough, Shawn was practically back to normal, excepting a slight limp, several new scars, and some nice new pins in his hand bone. He and Gus showed up at the bull pen, the pseudo-psychic flailing his limbs (his left hand still encased firmly in a neon green cast that had been signed so many times the names were indistinguishable) and shouting nonsense that Gus dutifully translated. If Shawn noticed the palpable relief that swept the room in the wake of his fit or the fact that _Lassiter_ actually paid attention to him without a snarky attitude, he didn't mention it. But he wouldn't go near Juliet's desk, always detouring towards Lassiter's and then shouting across the room to the Junior Detective. It wasn't until a week later that Juliet, with a pang, suddenly realized that to get to her desk one had to walk straight past the one that had once belonged to Dobson.

But then there came a day when Shawn strolled past that desk and jumped up to sit on Juliet's desktop, holding the pencil cup that he displaced in his hand and rolling the utensils in it. Juliet couldn't help but to beam at him, proud of his progress.

Despite his visible _progress_ , though, it was painfully obvious that not all was well. For one matter, Juliet had seen the orange prescription bottles when she'd had a movie night at Shawn's place. They were lined up beside the sink, and she had made a conscious effort not to read the labels as she washed her hands. Even if she knew what each of the six pills he was taking did, what would she do with that information? Nothing. On that same night, Shawn had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through The Breakfast Club, so, being considerate, Juliet had tried to wake him to put him to bed.

She bent over his face and shook him gently—in hindsight, a really terrible, awful idea. The light from the TV, movie paused, had silhouetted her from behind, so all Shawn had probably seen was a dark figure with messy hair standing over him. And wasn't it unadvised to shake a traumatized person awake? She was sure she'd read that somewhere…In any case, Shawn had woken quite violently, lashing out with his left hand and simultaneously scrambling toward the end of the sofa.

Juliet had a split second to register that he'd hit her square in the nose, with the _cast_ , no less. She stumbled back away from him with a more surprised than hurt yelp. One hand went up to pinch her nose as she felt hot blood gush forth, and the other came up in a placating gesture. Shawn blinked rapidly in the dim light, confusion and fear fading to recognition. He jumped to his feet when he saw his friend standing a few feet away, a stream of blood, black in the darkness, streaming down her wrist and chin. " _Shit_ ," he said, looking wretched. Juliet had assured him that she was fine, but he had insisted on getting her an ice pack and having her sit, on getting her a cold cloth to clean up, promising to have Gus get her shirt dry cleaned to get out the blood stains.

And he had continually apologized, and lied about having a nightmare about crab cakes that conspired against the pineapple empire, of which he was the king. Juliet was sure he'd had a nightmare—that was to be expected—but she was certain too that the contents had been more along the lines of a recent scary memory. But she had said nothing about it, waving the incident off, because Shawn looked like a kicked puppy (more like a kicked puppy that expected to be kicked after having an accident), and she couldn't stand that look on him.

Juliet felt a bit better when Gus told her that it wasn't the first time Shawn had woken badly, that it was a common reaction with people who were afflicted by PTSD, which Gus apparently knew a lot about because he'd researched it. He showed her a small, healing cut on his chin where one of Shawn's fingernails had got him when Gus startled him (Gus had extraordinarily quick reflexes and had dodged the worst of the flail).

She broke out of her thoughts when Lassiter suddenly made himself look very busy. That usually meant one of two people were heading toward him: Chief Vick or Shawn Spencer. Glancing up, Juliet saw that it was the latter, and she shot him a smile as he neared.

Her breath caught in her throat when he snagged the rolling chair from Dobson's desk, as he used to do. He sat in it and propelled himself the rest of the way, making only a slight detour to pick up a sheet of paper from the printer. How he'd known it was hers she didn't comprehend, but it had saved her a trip and she thanked him for it. As Juliet checked over the records and put it in order with the rest of the pages in her file, Shawn busied himself with her notepad and a pen. She didn't mind; he usually left cute drawings lying around the station, or caricatures of some of the workers. He was especially fond of drawing Lassiter in a Dracula cape, for some reason.

"I can't stay long," he said, capping the pen and putting it back in the cup.

"Oh? Busy day?" Juliet smiled, reaching for her pink hi-liter.

"Extremely," Shawn said gravely, peeling the page off of the notepad and stealing an excessive strip of scotch tape. Juliet wasn't a detective for nothing, though; she'd pieced together that Shawn was gone around this time for another couple of hours twice a week. He was, quite understandably, seeing a therapist. "See you, Jules!" he said cheerfully, propelling himself backwards.

She gave him a small wave and returned to her work, but she couldn't help but to watch out of the corner of her eye as Shawn rolled to a stop at Lassiter's desk. The head detective was determinedly absorbed in his work, but Shawn seemed completely undeterred. In fact, much to both his and Juliet's utter shock, the pseudo-psychic stood up and nearly tackled the man with a strong Irish hairline in a hug. Lassiter seemed frozen, eyes wide as saucers and arms floating in midair, as though Shawn were keeping him from floating away.

Almost as quick as he had done the deed, Shawn turned on his heel and scampered out before Lassiter could regain his wits. Several emotions ranging from confusion to ire to an oddly touched expression—and then a mixture of those—flitted across his face. Then he looked sharply at his partner as though to confirm whether that had just happened and to threaten her against telling anyone, and she ducked her head quickly.

When Lassiter stood to get a refill of coffee, she saw that Shawn had had an ulterior motive. She was slightly abashed at herself that she hadn't noticed that the note and tape Shawn had taken had been missing when he run off. She spotted it fluttering in the breeze of Lassiter's stride, stuck in the center of his jacket. She sincerely hoped no one was dumb enough to tell him it was there, or, God forbid, follow through on its suggestion:

 _KICK ME! ;P_

END

 **A/N:** Holy shit, this took for-fucking-ever to write. My motivation and I were having a bit of an off / on relationship for a few months here, and I kept getting distracted by school work and personal and family illnesses, and also I found the published book series of _Supernatural_. This story has a horrible ending, I know, but I'm not qualified for this type of writing, I think. For the sake of the storyline, we're going to pretend that breaking your thumb to escape handcuffs is a valid maneuver.


End file.
